


he's got you high (and you don't even know yet)

by LeftHook, moonjockey



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHook/pseuds/LeftHook, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonjockey/pseuds/moonjockey
Summary: “I, Alexander Hamilton, am high. It would be generous to describe you, the Two-Hit Wonder, as high. But I’m feeling generous tonight, so we’ll give it to you.”





	he's got you high (and you don't even know yet)

“This…” Burr said, holding up his own fingers. “This is…I feel like….Hamilton.” 

“Burrrrrrrrr?” Hamilton drawled. He was sprawled on the base of the Rodin sculpture next to Burr, one arm tucked underneath his head.

“I feel weird.” 

“Burr. You took _two hits_ of that joint.” Hamilton squeezed one eye shut, connecting the stars overheard with two fingers.

“My system is in very delicate equilibrium,” Burr said.

“Oh yes, our delicate little flower, Mr. Aaron Burr,” Hamilton cackled--that was the only word for it. 

Burr felt himself scowl, but felt disengaged from his body--what was happening? “I--I--” 

Hamilton was still laughing. Laughing at him! “Hamilton, this is not funny! I feel like--” 

“Oh you feel colors right? You see dancing mushrooms?” Hamilton poked him in the side. “Oh my god, Burr. You’re the bessssssstttt.” 

“Oh, dear God. Are we high???” 

“I, Alexander Hamilton, am high. It would be generous to describe you, the Two-Hit Wonder, as high. But I’m feeling generous tonight, so we’ll give it to you.” 

“Shit,” Aaron said, still staring at his hands. “Shit.” 

“Burr! Aaron Burr. Did I just hear you utter a curse?”

“Hamilton,” Burr pleaded. 

“Oh my stars and garters. My sweet grandma in heaven.” 

“Don’t say that,” Burr snapped, horrified. “Hamilton. Please. I am in the middle of a crisis, and you--”

“A crisis? You smoked a joint. Like. One sixteenth of a joint. Big fucking deal.” 

And he couldn’t believe he had. Why did he keep getting himself roped into Hamilton’s bullshit? He had to be surrounded by him all the time and kept getting himself sucked into his ridiculousness. Burr'd told himself he was doing this to relax for one night, and look what happened. He could get addicted. Spend all his time doping up. Grades down the tube. He’d have to drop out of school. Spend all his money on drugs. Sleep under a _bridge!_

He could overdose. Sweet Lord, he could _die!_

“Why did I let you talk me into this??? Go out, you said. Have a fun night, you said--”

“Burrrrrrrr,” Hamilton said, looping an arm around him and pulling him close. He went, loose-limbed, collapsed against Hamilton’s shoulder in a heap. “Relaaaax,” Hamilton said, drawing it out obnoxiously again. Burr made an incoherent noise, pressed against his shoulder. Hamilton smelled strongly of cigarettes and sweat, and under it a whiff of very cheap shampoo. Mint. Burr took a deep inhale, and then another. 

Hamilton made an amused noise above him. “Christ, Burr, are you _smelling_ me?” 

“I can smell your shampoo,” Burr said wonderingly. “Books. That nasty pizza joint on 47th you always go to. I can smell everything.” 

“Everything?” Hamilton said, grinning.

Burr took a handful of Hamilton’s sweatshirt, pressing his nose deeply into the fabric. “I can smell your _essence._ ” 

Hamilton burst into laughter. Offended, Burr tried to untangle himself, with middling success. 

“I get it. That’s just you. It’s your kink.” Hamilton heaved him to his feet.

“Kink?” Burr repeated, swaying only slightly as he stood on his own two feet. 

“You know: thing you get off on?” 

Burr tried to make his body scowl at Hamilton, hopefully successfully. “I know what a kink is!”

“You go to bed at 10:00 pm! And you’re losing your mind about this joint. I can make a few assumptions about you.” 

“You,” Burr said, “Alexander Hamilton, know nothing about me.” 

The decision was made. He could not _tell_ Hamilton what he had discovered smelling Hamilton; he had to _show_ him.

He took a step, but it took him closer than he intended. He overbalanced, and his lips wound up buried in Hamilton’s hair. 

“I know you can’t hold your intoxicants! Jesus. Let’s get you back inside, get you a couch where you can sleep this off. Or maybe bring you around to a few people, who really need to see you in this state.” Hamilton looped an arm around Burr. His fingers found the curve of Burr’s waist and splayed there. 

Hamilton touched him frequently, more than maybe anyone in his life since his mom: slapping him on the back, laying his fingers on Burr’s arm as he argued, picking lint off the collar of Burr’s jacket. Each one a surprise to Burr, as almost every part of Hamilton was. 

This touch burnt, like each of his fingers was an individual point of light. When he rolled his head over to look at Hamilton, he was caught by the light reflected there in his eyes, too, the midnight sun, the shine off a pool too deep for a light to penetrate. 

“Come on, lightweight,” Hamilton said, and Burr moved with him, swept along by the force of Hamilton’s presence. As always. 

“Hamilton,” he said. “Your essence is beautiful, did you know that?” 

“Of fucking course I knew that,” Hamilton said, but when he looked over (he hadn’t stopped looking at Hamilton, was not sure why anyone would), Hamilton was smiling, and for once not laughing at him, just a sort of pure, private amusement there, and Burr’s heart skipped two painful beats.

He might still die. He hadn’t ruled that out. 

But he might have a bigger problem than that.


End file.
